His untucked shirt hid
his belt missing a loop or two.
His morning beer kicked in early.
My uncle drove six of us
in the back of a station wagon.
No seatbelts, confident in the
wood-paneling protection,
we sloshed atop the vinyl seats,
classy as koozies. His mustache
and thin lips offered profane prayers
as the speed squeezed us together.
Clip-on ties and wrinkled dresses
at the visitation, we fished cursed coins
out of the funeral home’s fountain.
Heirs to scrapping by, stealing luck.
From his casket, my grandpa made sure
that we are paying back every penny.